The Lamp of Fate Part 64

"Then if he isn't there, what's the use of your rushing over to Paris?"

protested Storran. "It's absurd--an absolute wild-goose chase. You can't go!"

Gillian's brown eyes came back to his face.

"But I'm going," she said calmly.

He frowned.

"If Michael's not at his studio he may be--anywhere!"

She nodded.

"I know. If so, I shall follow--anywhere."

Storran looked down at her and read the quiet determination in her face.

"Then let me come too," he said. "Sort of courier, you know. I'd just be at hand in case of a tangle."

"Oh, no! I couldn't let you. There's not the least need. Good heavens, I'm not a baby!"

There was a curious softness in Dan's blue eyes as they rested on her.

"No. I think you're--a very good friend," he said. "But I don't see why you should have the monopoly! Let me show I know how to be a good pal, too, if I want to."

"No--no." Gillian still protested, but her tone betrayed signs of weakening.

"We'll be as conventional as you like," urged Dan, twinkling. "I'd stop at different hotels."

"Well, but--"

"Say 'yes'!" he insisted.

Gillian smiled.

"You obstinate person! Yes, then!"

"Thank you. Then I'll go along and buy a ticket."

He turned and went towards the booking-office, while Gillian, inwardly much relieved, awaited his return. She could not but acknowledge that in the "wild-goose chase" upon which she was embarking it would be an enormous comfort to have Storran at hand in case of an emergency. As to the proprieties--well, Gillian was far too honest and independent a soul to worry about them in the circ.u.mstances. Her friend's happiness was at stake. And whether people chose to talk because she and Dan Storran travelled to Paris together--or to Timbuctoo, for the matter of that, if Michael had chanced to depart thither--troubled her not at all.

When Storran rejoined her a much more practical consideration presented itself to her mind.

"But, my dear man, you can't fly with me to Paris without even a tooth-brush! I'd forgotten you'd no luggage!"

Her face fell as she spoke. But Storran dismissed the matter with a smile.

"Oh, I can buy clean collars and shirts as I go along," he replied, entirely unruffled. "The d.i.c.kens was to get on to the train at all!

They a.s.sured me there wasn't a seat. However, I make a point of never believing official statements--on principle."

And as a consequence of such well-directed incredulity, Storran accompanied Gillian to Dover and thence to Calais.

They had a good crossing--sun up and blue sky. Looking back, afterwards, it always seemed to Gillian as though the short time it occupied had been a merciful breathing s.p.a.ce--a tranquil interval, specially vouchsafed, in which she was able to brace herself for the coming race against time. Just so long as they were on board, nothing she could do was of any importance whatever, either to help or hinder the fulfilment of her errand. She could not quicken the speed of the boat by a single throb of its engine. So, like a sensible woman, she sat on deck with Dan and enjoyed herself amazingly.

Afterwards, in quick succession, came the stir and bustle of landing and the journey to Paris. They arrived too late to make any inquiries that night, but ten o'clock the following morning found them outside the building where Michael had his apartment.

"Oh, Dan!"--Gillian was seized with sudden panic. "Supposing he is here, after all, and has _deliberately_ not answered Lady Arabella's letter?"

"I shouldn't suppose anything so foolish. Michael may be many kinds of a fool--artists very often are, I believe. It's part of the temperament.

But whatever he proposed to do regarding Magda, there's no reason in the world to suppose he wouldn't answer Lady Arabella's letter."

"No--no. Perhaps not," agreed Gillian hurriedly. But it was in rather a shaky voice that she asked to see Mr. Quarrington when finally they found themselves confronted by the concierge.

"Monsieur Quarrington?" Hands, shoulders, and eyebrows all seemed to gesticulate at once as madame la concierge made answer. "But he has been gone from here two--no, three months. Perhaps madame did not know?"

"No," said Gillian. "I didn't know. But I thought he might possibly be away, because I--I have had no answer to a letter I wrote him."

"What misfortune!"

The concierge regarded Gillian with a pair of shrewd, gimlet eyes while a stream of inquiry and comment issued from her lips. Madame was the sister of monsieur, perhaps? Truly, they resembled each other! One could see at a glance. No, not a sister? Ah, a friend, then? And there had been no answer to a letter! But monsieur had left an address. Oh, yes.

And all letters were forwarded. She herself saw to that.

At last Gillian managed to stem the torrent of garrulity and interposed a question concerning the telegram she had sent.

A telegram! Now that was another affair altogether. Yes, the concierge remembered the telegram. She had opened it to see if it were of life or death importance, in which case she would have, of course, telegraphed its contents to monsieur at his present address.

Gillian was nearly crying with impatience as the woman's voluble tongue ran on complacently.

"Then you did send it on?" she managed to interpolate at last.

The letter--yes. Not, of course, the telegram. That would have been a needless expense seeing that monsieur would already have had the letter, since all the letters were sent on. _All!_ She, Madame Ribot, could vouch for that.

At the end of half an hour Gillian succeeded in extracting Michael's address from amid the plethora of words and, bidding the voluble concierge _bon jour_, she and Storran beat a masterly retreat.

It appeared that Michael had been commissioned to paint the portrait of some Italian society beauty and had gone to Rome. Gillian screwed up her small face resolutely.

"I shall go to Rome!" she announced succinctly. There was a definite defiance in her tone, and Storran concealed a smile.

"Of course you will," he replied composedly. "Just as well I came with you, isn't it?" he added with great cheerfulness.

Her expression relaxed.

"You really are rather a nice person, Dan," she allowed graciously. "I was horribly afraid you'd suggest wiring Michael again, or something silly like that. I'm not going to trust to anything of that kind."

Accordingly, the only wire despatched was one to Lady Arabella, informing her as to their movements, and a few hours later found Dan and Gillian rushing across Europe as fast as the thunderous whirl of the express could take them. They travelled day and night, and it was a very weary Gillian who at last opened her eyes to the golden sunshine of Italy.

At the hotel whither Madame Ribot had directed them, fresh disappointment awaited them. The manager--when he found that the two dusty and somewhat dishevelled-looking travellers who presented themselves at the inquiry bureau were actually friends of Signor Quarrington, the famous English artist who had stayed at his hotel--was desolated, but the signor had departed a month ago! Had he the address?

But a.s.suredly. He would write it down for the signora.

"He's in Normandy!" exclaimed Gillian in tones of bitter disappointment.